


Rethink Our Technique

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Interrogation, M/M, Sexual Violence, Torture, victim fantasising about non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 21:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6487684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe does not escape the Finalizer. Kylo Ren is away, and Hux picks up on his interrogation. Poe... well. Poe wants to Stockholm. Only, he can only do so in his dreams. Dreams he wishes he didn't have. (Please see notes for content warning and read with discretion.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rethink Our Technique

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stiletto Ren (Stiletto929)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stiletto929/gifts).



> Torture and Interrogation. Violence and sexualised violence. Victim fantasising about dub/non-con (without it actually happening in reality). Victim’s subconscious is very sick. Please be aware of that before reading this work of fiction. No actual rape occurs, unless you count the victim’s subconscious fantasising about it as it. I do not condone non-consensual sexual situations HAPPENING in any manner, shape, or form. In fact, I am violently opposed to it actually happening. This is written for fantasy purposes only, for those people who enjoy it fictionally (like the victim). 
> 
> PLEASE do not read if it is not your kink. Please do not try to police me, either. I’m not making anyone read this.

_There is a hand sliding through his hair. He feels the soft kiss of leather, the thumbpress into the wound on his temple. The gentleness is cut through with the fine threat of fresh pain, and then the fingers in his locks tighten and tighten and tighten until his eyes sting and Poe cries out and–_

The dreams are getting harder to deal with. He usually knows, on some level, that he’s dreaming. Knows that the slight haziness to the world is his unconscious mind trying to grab whatever sleep he can between sessions. Poe has no idea how long he’s been captive aboard the _Finalizer_ , but it feels like years. He’s still strapped into that damn chair, where he spends most of his time. He wonders how many of them they have. He wonders if there’s other prisoners currently having the works done to them, too. Do his captors take them all in turn? On a rota? Or what?

At least now the Dark Sider is off somewhere, he’s had some reprieve. _Some_. Troopers come in and work their blunt-edges over him, and it hurts and is annoying and wearing and he would rather it went away, but it’s nothing like having your _head_ ripped clean open. Like daggers through your thoughts, and nothing is sacred any more. If Poe didn’t know better, he’d think the dreams were Kylo Ren’s fault, too.

But they aren’t. They’re his own sleep-deprived mind trying to process the horrors of what’s going on. He’s woken before he’s rested, he’s in constant pain and discomfort, and he’s… he’s just tired beyond bone-tired. The world is slightly faded, grey. He wavers between terrified and angry, then resigned and accepting, then… nothing whatsoever. He just wishes they’d give up on looking for things inside his head. Surely the Dark Jedi has taken all he can? 

It doesn’t stop the red-headed General (Hux? He thinks he heard that was his name) coming to sneer and check up on him. The man doesn’t bother dirtying his own, gloved hands. He stands in the corner while someone else hurts him, asking his questions that Poe doesn’t even know why he wants the answers to. He snarks all he can, reciting recipes, or trigonometry, or the ignition sequence of a Y-Wing, or the names of all the senators for Yavin he can remember… but he’s getting so very, very tired.

Hux walks over, and his hand touches his face. Poe jumps in shock as his eyelids are pulled down, as the General examines his eyeballs, or something. Has he drugged him, or is he just checking up on his physical condition? Poe doesn’t know.

“Lord Ren will be back in a few hours. I suggest you surrender your remaining intelligence to me, as it will be easier for you than another round of his methods.”  


“I keep telling you, you get more flies with honey.”  


“As you wish.” The General lets go, and walks out.   


Poe is both relieved and terrified.

***

He’s pretty sure he’s asleep. He is. That’s the only explanation for what’s going on, right now. He’s sure First Order interrogation doesn’t involve gloved fingers in his mouth. He gags around them, the taste very strange. He hasn’t ever sucked on leather gloves before, so his mind doesn’t know what to put in that sensation hole. So he knows there’s a taste, but he doesn’t know what of. It’s surreal in the extreme.

He blinks, trying to resolve who is on the other end of the fingers. One minute it’s Ren, the next it is Hux. The two bleed in and out, or switch, or something. Poe is too tired to understand. The fingers pull back, and he lowers his head.

Poe wishes his subconscious could dream about nice things. Nice things like how to escape this damn prison cell, instead of weirdly erotic thoughts about pain-turned-something else. He’s sure his body is too worn in reality to wake up hard, but it doesn’t stop the bizarre after-taste of distant arousal when he is brought back to the real world with a sharp jolt. 

He keeps waiting for that, for the kick to wake him, but it never comes. It never comes, and he looks up to see there’s two of them. That’s never happened in reality, but it’s happening now. It’s probably a bad sign. He wonders if this is some kind of internal captor-bonding? Because whilst he knew the boy became Kylo Ren, he has no real idea what was-Ben now looks like under that mask, and he’s as far from the innocent little child he knew then as it’s possible to be. Poe doesn’t know what could make a man go from Jedi-in-training to mask-wearing-murderer, but it’s definitely something outside of his scope of experience. How would you even bond with someone who doesn’t even make eye-contact? 

And then there’s Hux. Hux, who he knows nothing about, other than the fact he’s very precise, very orderly. He’s cruel, though. He has his troopers and droids do things, but he has that slight glint in his eyes when he does. Poe has no idea how you get into that kind of a head, or even if he wants to. 

Which means, as he can’t get them to _like_ him in reality, he’s clearly trying to find some way to do it inside his head. Yeah? Or maybe just process the things. Not… not that he _wants_ this. He wouldn’t want this. It’s sick. 

Poe Dameron has no desire to watch the string of saliva between those leathered fingers dance before his eyes. Absolutely no desire. None. Thank you.

“I see it’s time to _rethink our technique,_ ” the Dark Jedi says. “You’re going to give us the information we require.”  


“I told you: two parts milk, three–”  


There’s a slap of that hand - the one that had just been in his mouth - across his face. A back-handed silencing, and it makes Poe’s jaw ache. His head rings, and he spits. No blood, but it was likely a close-run thing.

“I told you,” Hux sneers. “He needs breaking in, first.”

“And you’d like me to provide the muscle?” Ren asks.  


“You would be infinitely more skilled at it than I.”  


Poe doesn’t like the sound of that, and then the restraints are loosened on the chair. He tries to back further into it, away from the hands. Tries to use his weary legs to squirm, but Ren grabs his shirt and lifts him bodily from the chair. The Dark Jedi is taller by several inches, and strong. Poe guesses even if he didn’t have the Force, he’d be a powerhouse. His jacket and shirt groan at the seams as he’s held by a bundle of clothes, and his legs windmill below him in terror. He’s _utterly helpless_. 

Why can’t he dream himself strong? And why isn’t dream!Ren using the Force? Maybe his mind doesn’t know the rules of Force powers enough, and that’s why they’re weirdly absent. 

“You’re not going to break me,” he says, but his voice wavers a little when he does.   


“Oh, we will,” Hux replies. He paces closer, and circles them like a predatory animal. Poe watches with horror as he realises Hux is - Hux is - he’s _eyeing him up_.   


He’s seen that lascivious look, to a lesser degree, before. Never so open, so outright, so… sadistic. He feels filthy even under the gaze, and he claws uselessly at the hand holding him up. “Ben… Ben, don’t let him–”

A hand clamps over his mouth, and there’s fury in the man under the mask. He can’t see his eyes, but he can **feel** it in the sudden way the air crackles like an ion storm about to hit his ship. He tries to bite on the hand, but he can’t. It’s a dream, and he can’t. Hands slide over his shoulders, and he freezes.

No. Oh, no. No. Poe does not want that. He does not want it at all. He does not want the way Hux’s fingers trace the outlines of his body, following bend and curve. He does not want the way they move to cup and fondle his ass, or the way there’s a sudden heat behind him as the General stands flush to his back. He kicks out with his legs, trying to get him off, as he feels hands slide over his hips. The fight suddenly goes, as he freezes in blank horror.

Hands. On his hips. Over, and around. Stroking at his groin, and then lifting to his belt. Poe does not… there is no dark thrill of terror shooting from his gut to his dick. No. His treacherous dream-body reacts, blood pooling between his legs and leaving him dizzy and light-headed. There’s a smug noise behind him as he’s stroked again, and it’s - it’s just that he’s being touched, not because it’s _them_. 

“Oh, little Resistance whore,” Hux coos in his ear. “You really _are_ living up to your reputation.”  


“Fuck you,” Poe spits, head wrenched free from the glove, because just because he’s a pilot, it doesn’t mean he’s a whore. Or a slut. Or any of those things. His cheeks burn and he’s suddenly aware his hands are free.  


Which - why didn’t he work that out before? He scratches and claws at the Force-sensitive holding him, and then he’s held in a bear-hug to the black-clad man’s chest. His fingers try desperately to reach for something, but the air is being squeezed from him as those clever fingers slide his zipper down and push in to grope him through his boxers. Poe’s mind goes white as he’s caught between the impossible strength restraining him, and the distant-close touch to his most private parts.

This. This is so not happening. _Why would he want to dream about this_? Hux fondles him almost lovingly, then his clothes are pushed forcibly down. His pants and boxers are yanked to his ankles, tangled around his boots. His traitorous dick is half-hard, rubbing against the man in front of him, and Poe closes his eyes and grits his teeth in shame. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.  


“No, but we are,” Ren replies. “And you’ll enjoy it, too.”   


Poe starts to shake, and then he feels himself turned around. His feet hit the floor, and he’s sort-of standing, but there’s firm hands on each of his arms. They’re pressed to his sides, and when he tries to struggle with his shoulders, the pain just gets ever more intense. He keeps fighting as much as he can, wriggling and making it hard on the hands unplucking his buttons, baring his chest. He hates it. He hates it. And no matter how much he hisses, or yelps, his captors don’t care.

Poe is being skinned alive, and no one will come when he screams for mercy. He’s been _abandoned._ He’s **alone**. He’s so alone that even his unconscious mind can only come up with this _torture_  to keep him company in his solitude. And he’s never, ever going to be able to look at either man, ever again.

By the time Hux is pushing his shirt off, there’s an arm across his throat meaning he can’t do much to protest. The other hand is between his legs from behind, vice-tight on his balls. It’s a shade too shy of real agony, but it’s something blurry in the middle between pleasure and pain. Poe can’t fight, or he’d be knocked unconscious or have his balls wrenched off. Neither sounds appealing, and then he’s… he’s naked. Well. His pants are still around his booted ankles, but other than that, he’s naked. He tries to fight even as his hands are shoved behind him, tries to keep them from being locked in heavy-duty First Order cuffs, but he can’t. His fingers wiggle uselessly, and he has absolutely no power here, at all.

None. 

He hates himself. He hates himself so much. He hates that the thought sends more dark need through him, and he wonders if he’s always been this sick? Sure, he’s had weird dreams. Sure, he’s liked the occasional ‘tied to the headboard’, but this is absolutely nasty, and the fact his boner isn’t fading isn’t doing any good for his mental space. He’s pushed to his knees, and a hand tangles in his hair. It pulls hard, and his eyes water as his head is pulled back. 

“Tell us where the base is,” Hux orders.  


“Die in a fire,” is his eloquent reply. Fear and panic and pain making it hard to quip properly, and then there’s fingers pinching into his jaw, forcing his mouth open.  


He knows what’s going to happen, even before Hux pulls down his zipper and pulls _out_ his cock. It’s long and slender - like he is - and nestled in a bed of vibrant, orange curls. 

“Bite me and I’ll cut off your own prick and stuff it down your mouth until you choke,” Hux tells him.  


Poe actually wonders if that would be a good way to end this. He’d bleed out, or suffocate, and would he really be able to dream that much pain? But then… this isn’t real. This isn’t real, so he isn’t really debasing himself. He isn’t actually giving Hux any real-world pleasure. So he can suffer unreal (but very tangible) agony, or he can suffer unreal degradation. Logically speaking, it is nothing but a no-brainer. He nods - as small and unassuming as he can - and then there’s a cockhead grazing his lips. It teases lightly, painting across them, and then it starts to push inside.

There is no way he is going to make it good for him. Not deliberately, anyway. He closes his eyes and doesn’t enjoy the way his mouth is taken, slowly. He swallows when the saliva gets too much, and tries to blank out the feeling of silky hardness brushing past his lips, over his tongue, buttressing the back of his throat. It’s all he can do not to gag on him, or vomit, and he hates that even this doesn’t make his arousal wane.

What the fuck is wrong with him? Sex is supposed to be caring. Sharing. Mutually arousing. It’s not supposed to be shame, humiliation, degradation and abuse. He’s not supposed to get off on the fact that he’s held in place by two powerful, tall, cruel men. That he can’t even shake his head because of the hands in his hair, and that all he can do is kneel there like the good bitch he is and let Hux continue to chase his pleasure. 

“I told you,” the General crows. “Look at his pathetic little dick. All hard from this. They love being used.”  


Poe doesn’t expect the tone in Ren’s masked voice. “It shows his appreciation for your virility. It shows he’s a good little slave.”

“It shows he’s pathetic.”  


Poe would use worse words. 

All of a sudden, Hux slams in as far as he can go. Poe tries to scream in protest, but his mouth is full and his throat is bruising and his gag reflex is working overtime and it hurts it hurts he can’t breathe it hurts it hurts.

“ _Tell us where the base is,”_ Ren demands.  


Poe can’t. He can’t. He would sooner die. He would die a hundred times over. He would swallow a thousand cocks. He can’t, even in his dream. Some things are sacred, and this is one. He shakes his head with all he has, and he’s pulled off Hux’s cock just before he blacks out. 

“Very well. Until you tell us, we’ll continue. General?”  


Hux moves to sit on the chair in the corner. Not the torture one, but a chair he’s not sure he remembers seeing before. Poe is dragged by his hair over to kneel to one side, and then he’s thrown - face first - to lie across his lap. He turns his face away from Hux, shaking from head to toe in disgust. The cock - the one he’s just been sucking - is bounced against his head, and he tries not to think about it. 

“I don’t see why you’re prepping him. You should just take him, dry.”  


“Because I enjoy lubrication that isn’t blood,” the Dark Sider replies.  


“Please… please, no  more,” Poe begs.  


Hands in his hair turn his face the other way, and he sobs in dismay as he’s pushed back down onto Hux’s dick. Tears sting his eyes as he wishes he hadn’t spoken, and then there’s a cold, cold, wet feeling between his legs. Poe scratches his fingernails against his neighbouring fingertips, desperate to distract himself. There’s a cock in his mouth - unmoving - and a finger in his ass. It pushes in slowly, but it still stings a little. He thinks it’s bare, but he can’t tell for certain. It pushes in and in and in, all the way in, and Poe feels his body opening up around it. The pressure on his ring is weirdly nice, almost comforting, and the sting reminds him that he’s sick and broken and awful. 

Poe wishes he could wake up for real torture, instead.

After the first finger comes the second. They snap in and out of him with brutal efficiency, and he hates how it makes his balls heavy. It’s too close to pleasure for him, and he finds himself rocking gently back into it. Ren spreads his hole wider, and he takes hissy breaths through his nose as Hux forces his head up and down on his dick.

This position is murder. Just his upper torso is supported, his knees on the floor, his hands still bound. His legs shake from it, and he knows there’s no getting out of it. The third finger goes in, and his knees wobble weakly. He knows what is likely to come next, and when he hears fabric moving, he knows he won’t be disappointed. Or… or he will. He will.

“Look how he arches his back for you.” Hux is disdainful, his tone dripping venom.  


“He knows how good I can make him feel,” Ren argues. His fingers slip out, and Poe whines in protest around the shaft in his mouth.  


“See! Slutty little wanton.”  


“Be a good little pilot.” Ren sounds approving, and Poe hates that he likes the positive feedback. Hates that he feels himself both calming _down_ and gearing **up** when he feels the press of his cockhead against his hole. “Take it all. Take it all, there you go…”  


Why dream!Ren is being nice, Poe has no idea. He has no idea if either of them would even find him sexually appealing, let alone how much of this is realistic. He has no idea if either of them like guys, or forcing one to bend over and present ass and mouth. Poe didn’t know he liked it, either, but apparently he does.

Apparently it’s pleasurable as a fat, fat cock splits you open. Even through all the prep, it makes his thighs tingle with it. There’s a moment where he hovers on the precipice, and then Ren slams into him, hard. So hard his eyes roll up, and he’s sure Ren just **broke** his prostate, because there’s a bright, glorious flare of something inside of him, and he doesn’t even realise the man is thrusting in and out for a long moment. Then it hits like a wave, and Poe **hates himself** for how good it feels. 

He ruts uselessly against Hux’s leg, even as Ren slams him so hard the sound resounds through the room. Hux has hold of his hair again, and he moves him over his cock, forcing his way back into Poe’s mouth. Poe’s lips are strained, his throat raw, but he tries to relax and not to moan as he’s filled from both sides. He feels utterly used, claimed, owned… and that should _not feel so good_. But it does. It does. His body reacts like he wants this, and he can’t deny he’s hard and hurting from it. 

“Look at him. He’s rutting like a mad animal.”  


“Well, if you _will_ insist on beating a masochist…”  


Poe wonders if that is what he is. He wonders as a hand wraps around his cock. Ren’s. Ren has hold of his cock and is stroking it hard, hard and fast. He keeps riding Poe’s ass as he does so, and Poe doesn’t want to come, but he does. If he does, maybe he will wake up. Or feel good. Or something. He feels the climax just before it hits in a weird… prescience. And then he’s coming, coming, and there’s a mouthful of salty, choking fluid gushing out around his lips, too. He struggles for air, the fight for it burning his lungs, and there’s a slap to the side of his head.

“Messy brat!” he’s called.  


Poe apologetically starts to lick Hux’s lap clean of dribbles. At least… until Ren’s pace kicks up. He’s brutal and _un_ apologetic in his passion, and Poe almost wishes he could be subject to that  _Sturm und Drang_ in a different context. Ren rides him like a starfighter cresting a storm, and then he’s holding Poe’s hips so tight he will leave fingerprints in his skin. The sense of his climax, almost distant… a gushing… warm… sof… 

***

Poe blinks his eyes open, groggily. It takes him a moment to work out what’s happened, or where he is. He looks up at a familiar mask, and his eyes close in distress.

Great.

“Interesting,” Kylo Ren says. “Is that how I should be getting the map location from you?”  


Poe does not reply. 


End file.
